


I Wish That I Knew

by Iminaloine



Category: Powerpuff Girls
Genre: Additional Warnings/Tags In Author's Note, Angst, Dorks in Love, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow-Freakin-Burn, Temporarily Unrequited Love, y'all know this is gonna be kinda long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24385315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iminaloine/pseuds/Iminaloine
Summary: "Flirting is sappy. I just wanna hold your freaking hand." In which Butch tries to cope with his feelings for Buttercup, Buttercup tries to meet in the middle, and both of them lose their minds (and possibly hearts) in the process. Greens, told in alternating POVs.
Relationships: Butch/Buttercup Utonium
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50





	1. Hangout

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: To anyone who watches Steven Universe, the title should be pretty clear. I'm gonna be using lyrics from 'Love Like You' in this story, because whenever I listen to it, I just get the message of unrequited love, and a lack of self-love, both of which will be addressed in this fic.  
> Also, Butch is gonna be written kinda differently (but not too much) in here, to fit the storyline, but hey, y'know what they say.  
> It makes you crazy.

_If I could begin to be_

* * *

I manage to psych myself up enough to make it to her house, and a little more to make it to the front porch, but that's it. The reality of what I'm about to do hits me like a bitch-slap to the face, and I almost spin around and fly off with my tail between my legs. I'd be gone already if I didn't ask if I could come over before. She said yes, _obviously_ , because she didn't see the very well-hidden ulterior motive within that question.

"God, I'm an idiot." I kick at the ground, wondering how badly my brain must've been functioning last night. Probably really badly, since I actually sat down and let Boomer's words register in my head.

 _Why?_ I think suddenly. _Why the hell did I listen to him?_ Following instructions from Boomer is as good as taking advice from a rock. I was probably too caught up in my thoughts to realize how dumb of an idea this was.

And now I can't turn back, because I'm supposed to be here by now and me leaving would be weird.

"Ugh," I growl under my breath, floating into the air and ascending until I'm level with her bedroom window. It's here that another self-berating question comes to mind.

What the hell was I even planning to say? In my rush to get here I didn't even think up a rudimentary speech. A simple way to get the point across pops into my head:

_Hey, Buttercup! So we've been friends for four years now and I've finally grown enough of a pair to tell you that you're hella cool. And hot, yeah. That too. And I like you and whatnot. So yeah, wanna go on a date?_

I groan into my hand. I really am an idiot.

The curtains are drawn, but I can hear movement inside. A door closes: she must've just come in. I hear soft footsteps padding in the direction of what should be her bed—

 _Stop_ , I mentally hiss. _What am I doing_?

 _You're floating outside your best friend's bedroom window at midnight like a fucking stalker, that's what_ , my brain responds immediately.

 _Right_.

Before I can feel even more mortified, I fling the curtain open and step into her room, a smirk slipping onto my face out of habit—good. At least I look normal.

She's sitting on her bed with her back facing me—she hasn't seen me yet. I open my mouth, but end up looking like a fish out of water because I don't know what to say that won't sound stupid because let's face it, everything I've done in the past couple of minutes has been stupid.

So I just stand there. Like a moron.

She stretches, and her shirt lifts up slightly and _I can see her stomach_ OH GOD SAY SOMETHING BEFORE SHE SEES YOU YOU DIMWIT—

"Yo," I say, and she turns fast, startled.

 _Yo_? My mind screams at me. _Of all things, you picked 'yo'?? WHAT THE FU—_

"Oh, hey," Buttercup says, getting to her feet. Her expression relaxes, then turns unimpressed. "You're late."

"Yeah, I know," I say.

"By an hour," she adds, eyes narrowing at my noncommittal expression. I raise an eyebrow.

"Why're you so bothered? I'm late all the time." That's not true. Not anymore, at least. "What, are you taking this as a date—"

Her pillow sails through the air and collides with my face. I swat it to the side, and it hits the wall and explodes into fluff.

"You wish," she snorts, not knowing that I _really do._

"More like _you_ wish," I laugh, and she rolls her eyes and reaches for her jacket. I notice that her movements are uncharacteristically sluggish tonight; she's tired. "Long day?"

"Too long," she says, her expression turning annoyed for a second. "Miss Brady was being a bitch."

Ah, the new P.E teacher. Buttercup's been provoking the lady ever since she joined Townsville High, supposedly because the woman has some sort of vendetta against her. Knowing Buttercup, she probably _did_ do something to get on the Miss Brady's bad side.

Of course, I don't say this, because I value my limbs, and would not be very chuffed about them being broken in one of BC's rages. So I simply shrug and say, "Guess you'll just have to hope she'll get married so she'll be off your case."

"Married?" Buttercup scoffs incredulously. "She's probably never even been laid. Maybe _that's_ why she's got a huge stick up her ass."

I chuckle. "See, that's why she hates you," I tell her. "You're a bitch, too."

She shrugs. "At least I've gotten _some_ action with the opposite sex."

At that, I look away. Buttercup's first (and last, according to her) relationship is something we don't speak of, but it pops up in conversation once in a while as a joke or some sort of weird throwback.

Both instances only apply to Buttercup. Whenever I hear that scumbag's name I want to break something.

"So, what's up?" she suddenly asks, reaching for her jacket, and I stall.

"What?"

"You ghost me for the entire school day under the guise of 'not feeling well'—which is a pretty trash excuse, by the way—before suddenly appearing out of nowhere and asking me to meet up with you at midnight." she practically recites the words. It freaks me out sometimes. "So obviously you have something to say."

I kinda want to choke on my own saliva—almost do, actually—but I compose myself at the last minute.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ I didn't even make up some kind of alibi to buy her confidence in me, at least until we actually get to our spot so I can fabricate a better lie. I'm pretty good at lying in any way, so I didn't really think about it on my way here.

But now I remember that lying to Buttercup is a whole obstacle course on its own.

So I do the most characteristically Butch thing to do; avoid the question.

"You're extremely impatient, y'know that?" I say with a smirk. "For all you know, I could be planning some sort of surprise date for you." Aaaaand I hate how much of my feelings seeped through that seemingly noncommittal statement.

"Or you could be _lying_ ," she fires back instantly, and I cringe involuntarily. "In which case, I would kick you in the balls for wasting a night perfect for dreaming of ways to get Miss Brady fired."

"Could you be any more paranoid?" I say.

"Can we go now?" she retorts. I chuckle; she really wants to know what's up. And if I stall just enough, I'll be able to figure out some way to throw her off.

It's not impossible.

I immediately take a step back and gesture to the window overdramatically as she walks up to me.

"After you, m'lady," I drawl out in a tone that I hope is teasing.

She literally kicks me out of the window. Air rushes past and deafens me as I plummet to the ground outside, and I crash into the ground below with a heavy thud and a loud grunt.

"Shh!" Buttercup hisses as she flies down with more grace.

"Wha—you're the one that pushed me!"

"Well, you should've fallen quieter!"

"I—" I cut off as a light flickers on from behind one of the windows of the house. Buttercup mumbles _shit,_ and in one swift motion she grabs me by the collar and presses us against the wall and into the shadows.

For a moment, all my attention is on the light, watching shadows move behind it, willing it to turn off. Then I realize just how _close_ we are, how my chest is right up against hers. I'm suddenly very aware of her hand clasped over my mouth, _her leg pressed between mine_...

And just like that, I'm spiralling into insanity.

I have to move. Before I spontaneously combust or something. _Or_ do something stupid like nuzzle her hand or pull her closer or anything even remotely non-platonic because NO. But of course the universe picks this time to make my life hell, because the time slows down, each synchronized breath from our chests counting the agonizingly slow seconds as they pass.

I hate my fucking life.

It's after an eternity, when my resolve starts to crumble, when my body starts to move of its own accord, my hands reaching up to cup her face, that the light finally flicks off. In an instant panic, I do the first thing that pops into my head, not even caring how disgusting it is.

I lick her hand.

She recoils, and I cannot describe how horrified I feel. I don't even know how I manage to keep a straight face, but I don't want to think about it, so I speak.

"Let's go."

And then I take off, using the little headstart to internally scream before she catches up and deals me a vicious blow to the head.

"Ow! Hey!"

"What the hell was that!?" she hisses at me. I shrug.

"You looked like you were enjoying the close contact too much—OW! Quit that!"

* * *

It's a cool night.

The view of the city from the roof of Townsville High is pretty awesome, paired up with the fact that it's a full moon and the stars are bright.

I'm lying flat on my back, clutching a bottle of liquor to my chest; it's the best solution to my overthinking problems, especially when they revolve around the girl lying next to me. She's downing her own bottle right now, the showoff. Like we both don't know she has a higher tolerance than I do.

Shit, I'm thinking again. I take a long sip.

Stars. Sky. Her arm touches mine for a second.

Shit. _Swig_.

Stars. Sky. Moon.

Better.

"Easy, hotshot," she chuckles. "I'm not dragging your ass home if you get wasted."

"I'm not chugging it like you are, booze artist."

She scoffs. "You're just jealous 'cause you can't."

"Wanna bet?"

"No. Because I'm gonna win."

Yeah, she will. I know that.

I kinda relish these nights now. We used to come here almost every day after midnight. We'd lie down in a spot on the roof of the school building with a couple of cans of booze and just talk for hours on end about anything and everything, from homework to school, movies to sports, all the while pointing out constellations, or making up our own. I've always liked to stargaze; it's become our thing over the years.

These hangouts only happen once in a while now, which makes them more precious to me. When we're lying down like this, drinking under the stars, it's like it's just the two of us in the world. Alone.

Together.

I'm thinking again, but the bottle is limp in my hand and my vision is starting to cloud.

"Today was a shitty day," I murmur.

"Mhm?"

"Yeah."

She sets her bottle down beside her and sits up. She doesn't say anything, but I know she's listening. She always listens. She's always there, and that's one of the reasons why I—

 _No_. I force my arm to move, and then I down half the bottle.

"Had two tests," I say when my mind goes blank again. "Algebra n' Geography. Flunked both of 'em."

She snorts. "Not surprising."

"Hey, are you gonna laugh or listen?"

"My bad."

I let out a loud belch, and she laughs. I smile a little, too. "Ditched Chemistry. Got caught."

"Ooh. That's rough," she says apologetically.

"Wasn't as bad as Brick's bitching when we got home, though." I pull myself into a sit, and then groan when my head rocks back. It feels like lead, like my eyes feel like lead.

"Whoa," Buttercup says. "Seriously, dude. If you pass out, I'm leaving you here."

"M'not drunk," I mumble, and she hums, unconvinced. I'm really not, but I'm perilously close to it. Not that I'm worried—it wouldn't be the first time I passed out here, just like it wouldn't be the first time she left me to get caught. It's kind of a constant activity of ours; see if I can make it home in a drunken stupor and get through the next day of school with an epic hangover, or risk getting caught on the roof and being suspended.

I'll take suspension any day.

"So why was today shitty?" she asks, and I stare at her.

"...did you not listen to anything I just said?"

"I did listen. But those things happen every other day." She picks at a loose thread on her shirt. "So...?"

I shouldn't say. I should just tell her to forget it, because continuing means getting dangerously close to talking about Boomer's godforsaken advice. To the real reason I asked her to come out here tonight.

But I'm feeling stupid, and adventurous, and very nearly drunk.

"Boomer kicked my ass at some videogame," is all I say. The fug in my head is so thick that I can't even bother remembering which game it was.

She tilts her head to one side. "So?"

"We bet on it."

"...Yeesh."

I make a face, though it's more because of how weird I feel from the alcohol. I couldn't care less about losing to Boomer—I was just feeling competitive at the time and he was up for it. The bet made it a little more interesting.

"How much?" he asked me before we started. I thought for a while, feeling way more confident than I should've.

"A hundred bucks," I said, and he all but fell off from the couch, eyes wide.

"A hundred—for a _game_!?" he shrieked.

"Shut up," Brick snapped from his seat at the table behind us. He was reading some book, still seething from the lecturing he got at school for not correcting my 'misbehaviour'. We both ignored him, per usual.

"It's not like we don't have the money," I said.

He snorted. "I'd sooner ask Bubbles out than give you a hundred dollars out of my own pocket."

He realized too late that a predatory grin had spread across my face, and before he could stop me, I spoke.

"Do it, then."

" _Butch_ ," he said warningly, as if he looked threatening. I only grinned wider.

"If I win," I said slowly. "Then you have to ask Bubbles on a date."

"I second that," Brick piped up, and Boomer turned to glare at him.

"Dude."

"What? Everyone knows you're pining for her _hard_ ," he said, not moving his gaze from the book in his hands. "...maybe even Bubbles knows."

I chortled, and Boomer blanched for fifteen long seconds before growling and snatching a controller off the floor, face set in a determined expression.

"And if I win..." he trailed off, and his tone of voice should've made me back out right then and there. I should've listened to the little feeling of dread in my gut and just called the whole thing off, whether it made me look like a wuss or not.

But nope. Instead, I said, "C'mon. Whatever you're thinking, I can take it."

He took a slow breath, and then looked me dead in the eye. "You have to tell Buttercup that you have a colossal crush on her." He waited for comprehension to hit home in my expression before adding, "And _then_ ask her on a date."

I hesitated for a moment too long before jumping into my first form of defence: "I don't have a crush on her."

He scoffed and turned in Brick's direction again, tilting his head to one side. "Hey, Brick," he said. "On a scale of one to ten, how intense are Butch's feelings for Buttercup?"

He turned the page of his book before saying, "Totally pussy-whipped."

"Dude!"

Boomer suddenly cackled. "The redhead speaks truth, brother: you're pining _just_ as hard as I am. So admit it." he started gesticulating wildly. "Her impulsive rage _fuels_ your postpubescent _soul_!"

I gripped the controller close to my chest, every cell in my body screaming CALL IT OFF NOW, but no.

I was feeling stupid. And adventurous. And way too confident.

"Okay, first: that's the weirdest sentence you've ever said," I told him. "And second: fuck you. Let's play."

"Alright!" he cheered as the game loaded. "Best two outta three?"

"That all you can manage?" I taunted with a snort.

Yet here I am.

"Earth to Butch!" Buttercup says, waving a hand in front of my face. When my gaze meets hers, she asks her unheard question again. "I said, how much did you lose?"

 _All of my dignity, almost_ , I think, but I say, "A hundred dollars."

She recoils so hard she nearly falls over, her mouth dropping open. I snort.

"For a _game_!?" she whisper-shouts.

"Heh. That's what he said."

She stays frozen for a second, still reeling from the amount I didn't lose. And then she laughs. It's a slow chuckle that bubbles up her thoat, increasing in volume until she's tearing up. That laugh is amazing.

Like she is.

But there's no way I'm telling her that, at least not to _that_ extent. Even if it means actually slipping Boomer a Benjamin to make sure he shuts up about it. It's just too much of a risk, putting too much on the line.

I'm scared of what she'll say. Or rather, I'm scared she'll say something _bad_. Reject me, or end our friendship or anything equally horrible.

I'm scared I won't be able to handle it.

So I'll just have to stay here, with her, like this. Enjoying the closeness we have but still longing for more. Walking past her, walking _with_ her every day with this feeling in my chest, pretending like it's not there.

Like it didn't used to be.

The bottle's empty. Fuck.

"Tell me a story," I mumble, lying back down. She stares at me, and then snorts.

"Yeah, you're totally drunk."

Yeah, I am. "I'm not. Tell me a story." She tells pretty good stories when she feels like it. Or when I ask, which isn't often, so I know she'll yield.

"Alright, fine," she says, and then lies down beside me. She rests her head on my shoulder, and my heart does this stupid fluttering thing in my chest. I close my eyes, trying to drown in my intoxication, but all my senses are working on overdrive, all extremely conscious of the pressure on my shoulder, the way her hair tickles my cheek.

God.

Why do I have to feel this way about _my best friend_?

"Once upon a time, there was a drunkard from Citysville," she starts off.

I'm out before she can even finish the next sentence.


	2. Confessions Of A Superpowered Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for the first chapter to be longer, but eh. I can only write as much as I can come up with, and my inspiration dried up once I got to that point.
> 
> This one's written in BC's point of view. I hope I did her personality justice, heh.
> 
> Comments fuel my writing skills, literally. So leave some! Or a lot!
> 
> Additional tags: Intoxication

_Half of what you think of me_

* * *

Barely done with the first sentence and he's already half-conscious. Typical lightweight.

He curls up into a tight ball at my side, mumbling softly. He's slept this way for as long as I've known him; tucked into the fetal position, always trying to take up as little space as possible. It's a pretty weird contrast to his... _waking personality._

For a moment I think of waking him up and going home, or leaving him here and going home. Those are both things I would do normally, and Butch won't exactly mind since he's already halfway to the shadow realm. But I don't move from my spot. Instead, my gaze trains on his face.

He looks incedibly peaceful when he's asleep; even more so when he's in a drunken stupor. To anyone who doesn't know him, in fact, seeing him passed out like this would give the impression that he's not a piece of shit. Sometimes, even I think about what he would be like if he wasn't such a moron. But then I realize that I'd probably like him less if he were any different from the way he is now.

My gaze shifts to my watch. It's almost 2am. I need to get back home if I don't want to be a zombie come morning.

I let out a huff, looking back at Butch's sleeping form with annoyance this time. A whole day of him avoiding me, then he randomly drags me here in the middle of the night for some unknown reason, and now he's passed out beside me, and I'm still in the dark. What was the point of coming up here if he just wanted to get hammered and conk out like a dead fish?

"Stupid," I murmur, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He hasn't cut it in months; it's gone from short with a neatly shorn undercut to an unruly mane of curls framing his face. He looks kinda cute with long hair.

I blink, and then my eyebrows furrow. But before I can even think about whatever the hell that thought was, Butch stirs slightly, catching my attention again.

"Mm, warm..." he mumbles, nuzzling into my hand and muttering under his breath. I smile despite myself; the dork's always been weirdly clingy under the influence. Over the past four years it's gone from extremely inconvenient, to just one of those drunk things, to mildly endearing. I'm obviously never gonna tell him that; he'll never let me live it down, the jackass.

I scoff a little. "You're molesting my hand, idiot," I tell him. The only response I get is a quiet snore as he goes under again. I roll my eyes and yank my hand free, sitting up to get away from his grabby-hands as he whines from the loss of warmth. It is a pretty cool night, but he's the dumbass who didn't think to bring a jacket along. So when his hand finds its way to my cheek, I push it away and push him firmly down to the floor with one hand.

" _Hnnnng_ ," he groans, his face scrunching up with groggy effort. "Lemme _go_ , Butterbuuutt..."

Dear god, he's crazy drunk. It's fucking hilarious, how quickly he gets intoxicated. It's a small reminder that, even with his whole cool-guy attitude, he's still not that good with quote-unquote 'cool stuff'. I'm not gonna bully him about it, though; if anything, it's kinda funny.

I let out a half-hearted groan as he stubbornly lies down in my lap. Then the top of his head presses against my stomach, and I wheeze. "Hey, cut that out, you asshole!" I whisper-shout, annoyance seeping back into my voice. It really is too late for this shit, and since he doesn't sppear to be telling me anything any time soon, there's no point in staying here anymore. "if you're so adamant on sleeping, then go home. Or sleep here. Either way, I'm not gonna stick around and wait for you."

"Hunh? No, wait!" he suddenly says, grabbing my arm tighter this time. He turns so that he's looking up at me; his gaze is weirdly clear for a second, making me stall. "Don't... don't go w'thout... me. I don't—" he hiccups. "Don' wanna stay 'ere tonight."

I don't say anything at first. I'm not sure if I'm waiting for him to either keep pestering me or pass out again, but he does neither. His eyes remain trained on me, and my own eyes narrow. "So you actually want to head home tonight?"

"Mm-hmm. You'll help me, though."

"Okay," I reply, almost a little too fast. "But if you lean all your weight on me under the excuse of being wasted, I'm leaving you by the roadside."

"Uh-huh. Can we fly?"

"Fuck no. Not after last time."

"Heh." he tries to push himself onto his elbows as he chuckles, and I instictively reach out to help him up. "Dunno if I can walk," he murmurs to me. I scoff.

"Well, if you drag me down, I'm—"

"Droppin' my ass like a sack'uh potatoes," he finishes for me, waving his arms so wildly he nearly loses his balance. And then he snorts again. "Heh. _Toes_."

I cringe.

Once we're both upright and I'm sure that Butch won't faceplant into the floor if we take a step, we head over to the roof's edge. Normally, I'd just take off flying, but back when our midnight escapades were more frequent, I discovered that Butch's stomach has a tendency to slingshot all of its contents right back up Butch's throat whenever he is both drunk and airborne. So after a quick second of thinking, I decide to hoist him onto my back and climb down a rusted drainpipe. Thank god he's too drunk to say anything stupid. He just sits there, mumbling slurred words and chuckling every so often.

"We on the ground yet?" he asks me after literally twenty seconds.

"Don't make me headbutt you," I warn. He snickers.

"You wooon't..." he singsongs, his head lolling back. Thankfully, he falls silent after that; he's dozing, probably. I take my time moving down the pipe once I realize this, because I've learnt to appreciate the fleeting lengths of silence I get when Butch doesn't speak, for whatever reason.

It's when I reach the bottom that I discover that he wasn't sleeping at all. He settles his feet on the ground as soon as I move away from the pipe, and then he stares at me.

"What?" I ask him, and his lips stretch into a grin.

"You're sss _-trong_ , Butters—But-ters? Butt..." he trails of into garbled nonsense, giggling—shit, he must be really far gone if he's fucking _giggling_ now. I'm surprised he's capable of staying upright.

I shake shake my head and sigh. "C'mon, dumbass," I respond, moving to support his body. He giggles again as I move my arm around him, and rests his head against my shoulder.

"Don'take a'vantage o' me, Butters..." he murmurs, lips stretched in a wide smile. His eyes slide shut—

"Hey!" I whisper-shout, shaking him. He jumps, eyes darting around wildly for a few moments before growing lidded. He laughs again, making me grimace in irritation. "Either you're staying awake or I'm hanging you off of a streetlight."

"Nuuhh, you... y-you— _hic_ —can't hang me. I'll hang _you!_ " and then he suddenly screeches right in my ear, making me jump about a foot into the air. I swear colourfully under my breath—the entire _street_ must have heard that bellow.

I slap him upside the head, making him blink rapidly as he tries to focus on my face. "What the _fuck_ , you moron? Wanna scream a little louder for the rest of the fucking neighbourhood?" I glare at him, but he's about as responsive as a five-year-old on anaesthesia. As his gaze finally focuses, his face breaks into this huge, dopey grin.

"I kneeew you were a—sa—a _shadist_ , Butters, heh..." he drawls out, and then gasps and points forward. "Le's go home, But-ter-butt, what're you wait'n for? _Hyah._ " he says the last word in a deep, guttural voice so ridiculously monotone that I can't help but chortle a bit.

I swear, alcohol just de-ages this idiot.

* * *

Trying to get a drunk person to walk straight is an uphill battle on its own. Trying to get _Butch_ to walk straight—when all he wants to do is gawp and point at and walk towards every visible object he sees—is enough to drive me slowly insane. It gets better as we go along, though not by too much. By the fifteen-minute mark, we're hobbling along the quiet streets of Townsville with a three-legged-race sort of gait, and the Rowdyruff's place—along with the end of my suffering—is within sight.

Butch has fallen relatively silent at this point, and his feet are starting to drag against the gravel. When I turn to look at his face, his glassy eyes are trained on the sky, staring at the stars with a near mesmerized expression.

"Hey," I speak up, making him blink and stare straight ahead as if he's been caught slacking. I chuckle once, shaking my head. "Hey, walk properly. What'd I say before?"

He shakes his head, frowning. He stops moving entirely, forcing me to a stop, and then he says, "M'hot."

I blink. "You're hot?" I ask incredulously. "Butch, it's cold as hell. You're not hot."

"Then'you're hot."

"No, I'm not."

He shakes his head violently, face scrunched up in disapproval. "No, you dumb... not hot. Like... y-you're _fucka-ble_."

I stare at him in silence for a good five seconds. And then, "Where the fuck did this subject come from?"

He snorts. "My head." he leans against me again and whispers, "I think we're both hot, Butters."

Just when I thought he was getting sober, he proves that he's still plastered to all hell. "Good to know. Can we move now?"

He shakes his head again, the dopey grin from before returning. "Nope."

I suck in a breath through my teeth. "God, I should've just left you in front of the school entrance," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

"Nho, you wouldn't," he responds immediately. "You're too... nice."

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

He nods venhemently. "Y—hic—yeah. You're too kind to leave me in... on the entrance..."

"It's ' _by_ the entrance', Butch."

"Yeah, that. You're too nice for it, you..." he lifts his head to look at me. I almost laugh at the unfocused, dreamy look on his face. I'm already thinking of how to shut him up, but he's still going. "You're too shweet."

"Uh-huh."

"And you're—hic—really kind an'... an' you're sho..."

"Mm-hmm."

"... Y-you're pretty, too..."

I freeze. "Wait, what did you say?" I ask, my voice sounding a little disbelieving. Even Butch picks up on it. He frowns slightly, but repeats his words.

"Pretty." His eyes clear again, and his gaze focuses properly on me. His frown slowly turns into a small smile. "You're pretty."

I don't want to think about how rigid my body has gone right now. I haven't heard those words in such a long time that they sound weird. Foreign. Especially from Butch. So he has to be joking. He's too drunk _not to be,_ and the prospect of believing him now—even when Sober Butch wouldn't say this seriously—is pretty dumb on my part.

It's this train of thought that makes me say, "Butch, you think everything in a skirt is pretty, so I can't really say I'm flattered." My gaze shifts to the side, to my chagrin. I don't want my best friend's drunken, nonesensical ramblings to make me feel nervous, but they do.

"I used to," Butch mumbles. "I used ta' think it, but not anymore. Normal girls're meh..." his face breaks into a grin again. "Buttercup 'Tonium's the shite."

"... Did you just say 'shite'?"

He snickers. "Tha'sh unimport'nt," he says, but the sentence comes out so butchered that we both burst into fits of laughter. It's as if he's getting more drunk instead of more sober. If I didn't leave my phone at home, I'd have taken a bunch of pictures to tease him about later. He leans almost all of his weight on me again, but I can't really blame him this time.

"C'mon, you need to move if you want to go to sleep on your bed and not on the sidewalk."

"Nnn-nho," he retorts, sticking his feet out in front of him in order to stop us from moving entirely. "Nho, I... I gotta'— _hic_ —tell you a secret."

I hiss, pressing my free hand to my temple in an effort to not fold this dumbass like Saturday's laundry. "Your secret can wait until you're sober," I tell him. He's still drunk, and drunk people spout all sorts of bullshit better left unsaid under normal circumstances. I don't want to be put in that kinda of situation. But he doesn't relent.

He grabs me by the collar of my jacket, using it as leverage to get him to my eye-level. "Nah, I gotta' say'it now, or I'll never say'it, that's... tha's the beauty of _intoc-si-ca-shun_."

"Butch, don't make me fuckin' knock you out—"

"You already have, though!" he cuts me off loudly, but this time I'm too confused to hiss at him to shut up because even though his words don't seem to make sense, his eyes are in that momentarily clear state again. He's actually being serious - as serious as he can be when he's plastered, at least.

So I sigh. "Fine. What's the secret."

"Before that." He holds up a hand. "You hafta' promish that you won't, under any circum...circumsht _uhh_ —"

" _Circumstances_."

"Yeh, that." He burps suddenly, making me recoil, but he doesn't stall for more than a second. He looks me in the eye again and says, "Promish tha'cha won't.. tell this to yourshelf."

I blink. "I-I'm terribly sorry, _what?_ "

"You. Buttercup 'Tonium." He boops me on the nose twice to stress his words. "Promish me ya' won'tell yourshelf."

"But... I'm me, though?"

" _Shhhhush_. Promish."

"Butch, listen to yourself. Look, I'm— _mpfhhh_!" I cut off into a growl as he suddenly slaps his hand over my face—to shut me up, apparently.

"Promish, you dumb... butt."

Despite the fact that Butch has just said the most spectacularly nonsensical sentence I've ever heard, I decide to hear him out. Slapping his hand away, I sigh, "Okay. I promise."

He nods in satisfaction, and then says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world: "You knocked me out."

"... I knocked you out?"

"Yeh."

There's a very deliberately drawn-out silence, with me just staring at him blankly. And then I grab him by the back of his neck. "Yeah, now no matter what you say, I'm getting you home, even if I have to _wedgie your ass outside your room window._ "

"Huh—nho, wait!" He kicks and thrashes as I all but drag him along the sidewalk. The Ruffs' place is literally three minutes away. I'm seriously contemplating dumping him on the front porch. At least he won't die of exposure there. "Wait, you didn't lemme finish! I meant'ya punched me right in'tha _kokoro_!"

"The what-oro?" I question, but my pace doesn't slow.

"My _kokoro_ , stupid!"

"Uh-huh." I can practically count the steps to the Ruffs' front door from this distance. I'd be flying right now, but I still don't want to have to deal with a load of Butch's upchuck down my shirt.

Speaking of Butch; he is still. _Thrashing_. And now he's whisper-shouting a bunch of dumb shit too.

"Ya don't understand, Butters!" he hisses. "You're the... the Rose to my Jack, the Haz— _hic_ —the Hazel-Grace to my Augustus, the Peter to my Lara-Jean.."

Dear god, he's been watching romance movies with Bubbles again. "I'm not hearing it, Jojo," I say, not slowing my march in the slightest.

"Ugh, _you're the fuckin' Juliet to my_... wait, no, I don't want'ya to die..."

Wait, what?

I finally slow to a stop a few paces from his front door, pulling him back so we're face to face. "What are you saying?" I ask, and he lets out a breath.

"I _said_.." he singsongs. I shake him, and he chokes. "Ow."

"Speak."

"... I said tha'cha hit me in my _kokoro_ , Butterscotch cake."

Oh. _Kokoro_. The Japanese word for _heart_.

Then what the fuck is he saying? "What the fuck are you saying?"

"I'm saying... I like you."

Silence. I stare. He stares back, his gaze incredibly unwavering for someone so wasted. The seconds that pass are probably the longest I've ever experienced, and that's really saying something. We've probably only been silently staring at each other for a little over ten seconds, it feels like we've been here for an eternity.

I have no idea what the to say to that. To Butch's fucking _drunken confession._ My brain does a hard reboot and I suddenly feel like a fish out of water. The only thing I can manage to stammer out is a repetition of his words, "Y-you... like me?"

He nods, slowly. "Uh-huh."

"You're lying."

"Nope."

"You're fucking drunk."

"Yeh."

"Yeah, you're fucking drunk, actually!" I say loudly, pulling away from him entirely so I can backpedal a few steps. "You're wasted as all hell and you're just spouting shit like a drunken person would. I don't have to believe anything you just said, 'cause you're just drunk and saying bullshit. Y-yeah."

He's giggling again. I kinda want to punch him; not out of anger, but because I feel like I'll explode otherwise, for some reason.

Why am I reacting to this in this way? If it's just the alcohol talking (which it probably is) and he's not gonna even remember any of this tomorrow (which he probably won't), then why am I completely taken aback, instead of completely disbelieving?

" _Buttercuup_ ," he drawls out, hobbling over to me. He grabs me by my hand and holds it in both of his, that huge, goofy grin on his face again. "M'totally drunk, but m'not lying. Promish."

He can't even say words right. Why am I taking this absolute lightweight's words with anything but a grain of salt?

I shake my head. "Uh-huh," I tell him, flatness seeping back into my voice. I only have to force it a tiny bit.

"M'not shittin' you, Buttercup!"

"Right."

His eyes go wide, and he pulls me close, his expression suddenly serious again. "But r'member, you can'tell this ta' yourshelf, okay?"

Before I can answer, the front door slams open, and an extremely bedraggled, extremely _unamused_ Brick emerges from behind it, giving us both the stink-eye.

"What the fuck are you two screaming about at two in the morning?" he asks, his eyes narrowing.

"Brick!" Butch suddenly squeals, flinging his arms out and making grabby-hands at his brother, who recoils a little. "Gimme' some sugar, ya' red-headed asshole _punkass_!"

"... He's drunk, isn't he," Brick says—not asks. He knows. So I nod, and he sighs, holding out an arm. "Just give him."

"Gladly," I say, pushing Butch forward. He staggers towards Brick, who grabs him by the shirt, sends me a deadpan look of what I'm sure he apprently thinks is appreciation, and then closes the door. Not more than three seconds later, I hear a loud retch, and then a heavy thud. I snicker; I gave him back just in time, before the puke-fest-slash-black-out-a-la-Butch kicked in. Thank God for that.

"Sweet dreams, Brick," I chuckle to myself as I kick off into the night sky and start to head home.

* * *

I manage to not think of anything but my bed for the entire trip back home, instead letting the quiet rushing of the wind in my ears fill my head and prevent any intrusive thoughts from taking hold.

Home's just a couple of minute's flying distance from Butch's place, so in no time I'm landing silently in the driveway and sneaking over to the side of the house. I check the front window before I start floating again; it's a habit I've become used to after the Professor caught me sneaking back home one night and grounded me for a month ('m not up for forced house arrest, which is basically just hanging out with Blossom, who is under voluntary house arrest, in my opinion). When I don't see the Professor's face, shrouded in shadow in the corner of the window, I let myself relax and hover into the air, rising up to the bedroom window and sliding it open.

Again, my gaze sweeps over the room as a precaution. My sisters and I don't share the same bed anymore, obviously, but even with our individual beds in the furthest corners of the room, it feels like the smallest audible breath will wake one of them up. So I move slowly, keeping my eyes on Bubbles specifically; when she wakes up, she wakes up _loud_.

I wait a few seconds longer after I've reached my bed before I'm sure I'm safe. The rest is routine; I'm in my pajamas in twenty seconds flat, and then the cold of the night is kept away by my covers. I sigh into my pillow, letting my eyes close and hope for my body and mind to succumb to sleep as quickly as possible.

No dice.

As soon as I'm nice and comfy, my mind begins to wander back to the walk from school; Butch's hilarious slurring, the dumb giggles. And of course, the shoddy confession he made—if it even was that. The fact that it could _very much_ be just the ramblings of a _very drunk_ seventeen-year-old make me feel extremely angry at myself for not being able to let it go. He was drunk, and said a bunch of crap that were either lies, or weird half-truths that he won't remember tomorrow.

Maybe that's why I can't let it go? The possibility the confession was a half-truth? Isn't there a saying about drunk people saying what they wouldn't be caught dead saying if they were sober? And what does that mean? That Butch Jojo, my best friend of four years, has a crush on me?

There's no way. There's no fucking way. He can't have a crush on me. I'd have noticed. If not his words, his behaviour would have changed even a little bit. But he's still the same old dumbfuck who used to steal chalk, crush it and pretend to smoke joints. The guy who graduated to smoking actual joints at fifteen. The moron who barely ever tells non-sexual jokes and drools over anything with boobs. There's been no change, so it has to be bullshit.

I growl quietly into my pillow and force every thought from my mind, focusing only on the subject of sleep. Thinking about it pointless, and I have no intention of losing any more sleep over this. 'Cause let's face it; the fact that I actually believed for a second that Butch liked _me_ clearly means that I'm hella sleep-deprived.

So I need to go. The fuck. To sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts". That being said, writing drunk people is hard. Please tell me if I goofed it. Or if I aced it. Or just uh, say anything, I won't complain.


	3. Internal Screaming, Basically

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Butch's P.O.V once again! I really liked writing this one, even though it was really hard to write because there are a lot of scenes. It took so long to update because I've been writing extrance exams for college (WOOT). I'm done now, though, so I'll try my best to update sooner.
> 
> Anyway, I'd really appreciate any kudos and comments, even if they're just emojispam or keysmashes lol. They're all great.
> 
> Additional Tags: Mentions of blood, Slight self-harm, Anxiety

_I could do about anything_

* * *

There's nothing like waking up to a construction worker taking a jackhammer to your skull. As soon as I'm conscious the pain explodes into existence with full force, making me groan and hold my head.

"Nnghhh, fuck..." I hiss quietly, curling into myself and squeezing my eyes shut as the pain ebbs away bit by bit. When it's gone from bone-penetrating agony to a much more manageable throbbing, I slowly let my eyes open again.

Oh. I'm in my room. At home. How did I get here again?

Trying to think about whatever happened last night makes my head hurt even more, so I stop pretty quickly, deciding to focus on how the rest of my body is dealing with the epic hangover currently ravaging it.

My stomach feels weird and hollow, but strangely full at the same time. My throat is scratchy as hell. My eyes are dry, which definitely makes seeing a little problematic. My normally pristine vision is now mostly a blur of greys and browns, with the exeption of a single ray of sunlight peeking through my curtain and effectively blinding me altogether.

I let out an indecipherable sound of pain and push myself upward, lifting a hand to pull at the curtain and hide away the light that might as well be slicing into my brain. The only thought going through my sleep-addled, sore head is more sleep—hopefully seven hours worth, at the very least.

So I yank at the shitty curtain and plunge my room into beautiful semi-darkness, then slowly lower myself back down onto my bed, pulling the covers over my head and letting the hands of slumber press down on my mind once again.

So of course, that's when Boomer comes in.

"Good morning, dearest Butchie!" he says brightly—and _loudly_ —as he comes into my room with the grace of a freaking hippopotamus. I promptly growl into my pillow. "Are you ready to get up and start a beautiful new day?"

"I'm ready to go back to sleep," I snap at him, clutching my head in an effort to stop the steadily throbbing headache that has returned with full force. "Now get the fuck out."

"Nuh-uh! Can't do that, bro-bro!" he singsongs. Oh god, he's using overly cutesy terms. That can only mean—"As per orders from Brick, we're going to school. And by 'we', I mean you specifically!"

He sounds way too happy about this. I can't even imagine the absolute glee that the psychopath I call my older brother is feeling right now. "Well then, tell him that I'm in the middle of dying," I hiss, peeking out from underneath the covers just enough to glare at the dumbass. I'm tired and in pain, so I'm giving school a hard pass today.

"He says he doesn't care," Boomer responds immediately.

My eyes narrow. "You haven't even told him yet."

"Well, no. But he figured you'd say that, so he responded in advance."

And as if Boomer's words are some sort of cue, Brick bellows from down the hall, "Get the fuck out of bed, asshole!"

"Suck my dick!" I scream in response, and then wince at the intense lance of pain that slices through my brain at the action.

"I wouldn't be able to find that fuckin' toothpick if I tried!"

" _What did you say!?"_

"Okay, calm down! Both of you," Boomer interjects, turning to stare pointedly at the hallway outside for good measure. Then he turns his gaze back on me, and clasps his hands together. "You do kinda owe him, y'know," he says as he takes a very unwelcome seat on the edge of my bed. I scowl.

"Why would I ever owe Brick anything?" I growl at him. It's a genuine question, though; I endeavour to not owe Brick for anything at any point in time, both because he's a piece of shit and owing him would suck in general, and because he an absolute closeted nerd who always asks me to do stuff that's either boring, extremely inconvenient, or downright torturous. Like going to school with _a freaking hangover,_ for example.

Boomer tilts his head to the side. "You don't remember last night?" he asks.

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking why I owe Brick, idiot," I retort, irritated. But I'm starting to feel a little nervous at the fact that I really don't recall much of last night. Hell, I'm not even entirely sure how I got drunk.

Boomer, finally being useful for the first time today, enlightens me. "Buttercup showed up at the front door with your wasted ass at, like, one in the morning." And then his face breaks into a pleased grin as he adds, "And then after she handed you over to Brick, you puked your guts out all over him. It was great."

"... Oh, no." I squeeze my eyes shut.

_Buttercup_. Memories of last night pour into my head like a glass filling up with water. The stupid bet with Boomer. Buttercup and I hanging out on the school roof. Me drinking way too much alcohol at once. The last thing I remember is asking Buttercup to tell me something, and after that there's nothing but a chunk of emptiness.

Shit. Buttercup brought me home. She brought me home _drunk_. What happened during that period? What dumb shit did I do in the time it took to get from school to my house?

_What the fuck did I say to her?_

"What time is it," I say to Boomer. It's barely a question, my voice is so flat.

"Uh... 7:28?"

Anxiety is a pretty legit knock-off version of adrenaline; it's what has me propelling out of bed and heading for the door in about three milliseconds. Boomer stops me before I can bolt out of my room for the bathroom, and I have never wanted to rip his arm off so badly in my life.

"Wait," he says, a gleam in his eye. "Did you tell her you like her?"

Oh, shit, did I?

Did I blabber about it to her while I was plastered? Oh, fuck. _Fuck._ "Does it look like I fucking told her, Boomer?" I snap at him.

He squints. "Um, yes?"

My eye twitches, and he backs off pretty quickly. My eyes scan the room for a second, and then I scramble for my closet, pulling out a shirt and jeans at random and flying out of my room at light speed. By the time the bathroom door slams behind me I'm already ripping off my sleep shirt while simultaneously brushing my teeth. I briefly ponder skipping out on taking a shower, but decide against it; there's no way I can hang out around Buttercup smelling like alcohol and... ugh, is that _drool?_

God.

Fast forward to ten minutes later, and I'm forcing on my shoes while trying to shake my still-wet hair out of my eyes. My backpack hangs off of my elbow, haphazardly filled with books and hanging mostly open. Giving up on pulling my second shoe on, I get up and stomp my foot into it before darting down the hallway and out the front door. I pass a very confused-looking Brick on my way out, but I'm in the air and flying out of earshot before he can finish his sentence, which I can only assume was, "What the actual fuck?"

He wants me to go to school, fine. I'm gonna go to school _so goddamn hard._

* * *

I land on the school grounds fifteen minutes early. I'd be pretty concerned at this fact if I wasn't dead-set on finding Buttercup. My gaze ricochets all over the place, trying to catch a glimpse of black hair and green eyes. Or at the very least, Blossom or Bubbles.

And this is when my unease—which my mind had graciously put on the backburner the entire flight here—decides to come back with full force.

Of all the times to get wasted, my stupid ass decided to pick last night. When I was not exactly in the most stable state of mind, not to mention the fact that I was stewing in my very unrequited crush on my best friend. Everyone knows that I turn into a fucking blabbermouth whenever I'm drunk, and now I've got to deal with the fallout of me possibly having confessed my feelings under the influence.

Shit. Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up. If I did tell her, how did she react? Was she confused? Horrified? Did she laugh and brush it off? Was she disgusted?

Oh, god. Buttercup barely ever takes me home when I fall asleep on the school roof. Did she take me home and dump me in Brick's arms because she was _disgusted_? Is she even gonna want to talk to me? Oh god, oh god, _fuck_ —

_Calm down,_ I tell myself, trying my best to push my building anxiety out of my mind. _Calm the fuck down, Butch. You don't even know if you actually confessed. You'll ask her. She'll tell you. She will._

I wrap my hands around myself and take a deep breath, nails digging into my skin as I try to calm down. There's no use hyperventilating now. Might as well save it for if she does say that yes, I did in fact confess to her, and that she's honestly confused that I ever thought she'd date me for any reason whatsoever—

"Ugh, shut up," I hiss out loud, squeezing my eyes shut at the dull ache in my head. Not fucking helping, brain.

I let myself take a few more deep breaths, making a very large effort to not think about anything remotely confession-related.

As soon as I open my eyes, I catch light green ones staring back at me. My fear is immediately overshadowed by the extremely mortifying way my heart fucking _flutters_ at the sight of her, and my body develops a mind of its own, propelling me forward until I nearly headbutt her in the face.

"Wh—Jesus, Butch! Are you trying to kill me!?" she shouts, pressing her hands to my face and pushing my head back. And then she pauses and stares at me for a second. "Uh, what the hell happened to your hair?"

I don't fully process her question (and it's not because I'm too focused on her face to actually listen, fuck you, brain), so I respond rather eloquently with, "What?"

Her expression turns unimpressed, and she gestures toward my hair. "You've got the frizzies, dude," she says flatly. "What, did you prance out of your bathroom and then just head right out the front door?"

"Uh." Well, that that's pretty much exactly what I did, give or take a few other actions, but I can't tell her that.

Her eyes widen. "You actually did!" her face scrunches up as she snorts with laughter. "How the fuck do you forget to dry your hair, dumbass?"

"I mean, it could just be because I flew over here really fast," I say a little defensively.

"You're not denying not drying your hair, though." she flicks me across the nose. "And why'd you fly over here fast, anyway? You're the guy who's been late so many times it's a miracle you haven't been expelled yet."

"True." I rub the back of my neck. Crap, I didn't think this far. I can't just ask her straight up if I said anything weird last night. "But it's not like there's anything fun to do at home."

"School is never the better option."

"You say that like you don't get here early every day."

"That's cause the Professor drives us, moron. I don't have a choice."

Damn it. She isn't going to let up. I can feel the distress start to build in my gut again. The hand still rested on the back of my neck curls inward, pinching at the flesh. The pain grounds me a little. Prevents me from blurting out something stupid.

"Hey. Spit it out." She flicks me again, but on the forehead this time. It's barely a touch, but it reminds me of the pain in my head. The idea it gives me is enough to make me flip back into Butch Mode.

I wince overdramatically and move both hands to my head. "Ow!" I hiss at her. "Don't hit me on the head, you jackass! It still hurts!"

Buttercup simply rolls her eyes. "All the more reason for you to not be at school," she replies. "Why'd you show if you're still hungover?"

"'Cause the asshole redhead forced me to come," I mumble. I've never been so thankful for Brick being a piece of shit. "'Said I puked on him last night or something stupid."

She chuckles. "Oh, I wish I had stuck around to see that. Must've been freaking gold."

"Gee, thanks for enjoying my suffering. Why didn't you just leave me on the roof like usual, you shithead?"

"'Cause you were clinging to me like a baby koala! I had no choice, since you're so fucking handsy when you sleep!"

"Hmm. Sounds like you were enjoying it, though. Since you brought me home and all."

"Fuck no! Nobody'd be able to withstand what I had to last night. You were screaming and spouting all sorts of bullshit the whole time."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"A bunch of stuff, actually. All stupid, of course." She looks up at me with a small smirk. Then she starts listing stuff off her fingers. "You said you were hot even though it was cold as hell, giggled like a middle-school girl, told me not to take advantage of you, called me the shite, and—"

At that, she stalls, and my stomach pretty much drops to the ground.

I must have said something. There's no way she'd pause like this if I didn't. All at once, I'm on edge again; my fingers dig into my other arm, clenching tight against the skin until pain shoots to my fingertips, followed by pins and needles. The tiny bit of relief I get isn't enough. My anxiety builds higher, and I dig harder, clenching my teeth.

I need to say something. Change the subject, because now I'm kinda terrified of what she might say. But changing the subject would only end up with me stewing in anxiety for the rest of the day.

Picking the lesser of the two evils, I ask, "What? What else?"

She hesitates before speaking up. "You said... that I knocked you out? That was probably the weirdest thing you said all night," she adds.

It doesn't take a genius to know that she's not telling the whole truth. "You knock me out all the time. So don't sound so surprised," I say, and then I ask, "That's it?"

She nods. "Yup. All the generic Wasted Butch stuff," she responds. "You were either really stupid-drunk or so spaced-out you transcended. That's it."

Bullshit, I say in my head. Out loud, "Really? 'Cause for a second there I thought you were gonna say I flashed you or something."

"Pfft, nah," she says, turning and heading towards the school entrance. We've been here for a while; there's barely anyone outside anymore.

"I don't believe you," I say, trailing behind her.

"Then that's your problem," she says, shrugging. "And besides, I'd need a microscope to find your dick if you flashed it at me."

"What the— _why the fuck does everyone keep saying that!?"_

* * *

As most of my anxiety—and the natural anaesthetics that come with freaking out—started to peter out, my throbbing headache returned. By second period (Algebra, like my head doesn't hurt enough already) I'm in severe pain and trying extremely hard not to just fly out of the window and fall asleep in a tree somewhere. I'm restraining myself only because I share this class with Brick, whose resting smug expression persists throughout the entire period. He's enjoying this so much, and it aggravates me.

I didn't mean to puke on him, and he knows it. Granted, if I was lucid at the time I'd probably find it hella hilarious, but still. He just wants to see me squirm.

I manage to power through the entire class, to Brick's annoyance. I'm just about to turn and smirk at him when the the most deafening, shrill ringing sound pierces right into my brain. I let out an agonized groan, shoving my hands against my ears.

On a normal day, my superhearing makes the bell mildly startling at best and annoying at worst. With superhearing and a hangover, however, the bell is replaced with a nuclear siren, sending sharp stabs of pain through my head for the eternity it goes on for.

I can feel Brick's grin as the class disperses. He pats me on the back in mock-comfort as he passes. I can't muster enough energy to so much as glare at him, so I can only watch with a scowl as he saunters outside, leaving me mostly alone in the huge classroom.

I spend a couple of minutes wincing through the pain rippling inside my skull, and then stand up slowly. I'm eternally grateful that my supervision allows me to at least see straight, as opposed to the average person having to power through practically seeing kaleidoscopes for the enitre school day. Still, my vision is shitty compared to the norm, so I have to take a few extra minutes to make sure I'll be able to move two feet without slamming into a chair or a wall or something.

Once that's done, I head out of the classroom and make my way to my locker, where I squint at my schedule to find out what form of learning I have to power through next.

One look at the letters printed on the sheet of paper has me resting my head against my locker door and groaning.

I like to give every day the benefit of the doubt, considering there's always gonna be one crappy event or another to make me annoyed for at least some part of the day. But today, as I have now realized, is an honest-to-god shit day. Because not only do I have to power through five and a half more hours of school with a hangover the size of Hiroshima, but my next period is _Phys Ed._ Phys Ed being the one class that involves enough physical exertion to give me a headache on a normal day.

Of course, on a normal day, I'd dig that. Today, not so much.

So yeah, fuck this.

I shut my locker door and head down the hall, in the direction of the changing rooms. Instead of turning left and heading through the doors to said rooms though, I turn right, deciding to find one of the empty classes used for afterschool clubs to use as the location of an impromptu power nap.

I shuffle past the book club class (one English teacher or the other always goes in there every five minutes) and the drama club class (the sheer amount of masks hung on the far wall of that room scares the living hell out of me). My preferred choice is the class used for Math club, since its lack of props and/or equipment makes for a pretty convenient sleeping spot. Plus, Math isn't all _that_ bad, even though I don't admit it out loud.

Once I get to the door of the classroom, though, the universe once again takes pleasure in shooting all my plans to shit, because just as my fingers brush against the doorknob, the Phys Ed teacher—Mr. Howe—turns into the other end of the hallway, making eye contact with me instantly.

"Butch," he says in that deadpan voice he uses to let me know he's onto whatever shit I want to pull. "I'm not mistaken by saying that you have my class right now, right?"

_Oh, fuck me,_ I think. Out loud, "Uh, yeah." And then when he casts me a pointed look, I reluctantly amend, "Yes, Mr. Howe."

"Well then, I think you'd best leave whatever it is you wanted to do, and get to what you _need_ to do right now." He folds his arms across his chest; his muscles are hella intimidating, despite me being... well, me. "And you do know what it is you need to do, don't you?"

I briefly consider blatantly refusing and then flying off to fall asleep in a tree for the rest of the period, but having to power through detention in my current state could probably be deemed a form of torture at this point. So I nod once and U-turn, trudging back the way I came with Mr. Howe close behind.

One quick change of clothes later, and I'm on the sports field with about fourteen other teenagers, Buttercup included, and Mr. Howe. After about a minute I start to tune out whatever he's saying, shifting my focus to the two small trees on the far side of the field instead.

I've always wondered why the school left those two to grow. Whether it's out of lack of necessity or just to keep some shoddy semblance of nature preserved here, I doubt I'll ever really know. I find them kind of pretty though; their curved branches don't have a lot of leaves, but pink berries sprout from them every spring. I've seen some kids eat those, but I never tried. I guess the possibility of getting poisoned always outweighed my curiosity.

I remember Boomer got food poisoning once. Sixth grade, he ate a burger that had been sitting in his lunchbox for a day and a half, in the middle of a sweltering heatwave. Brick told him not to eat it, but he obviously didn't listen. That night he threw up until there was nothing left, and then threw up blood.

It was the first time we had to go to a hospital. Boomer couldn't eat anything more than five spoonfuls of porridge for two weeks.

"Hey." Buttercup's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I blink once and then stare at her; she's giving me one of her mildly worried looks. "You zoned out hard there."

"Sorry," I respond, looking at my feet in mild embarrassment.

Contrary to the popular belief that Boomer is the spaciest of us three, he's actually really good at concentrating, and I have the attention span of a goldfish when it comes to a lot of things. I look around the field to discover that Mr. Howe has finished explaining what we're going to do today, meaning I have achieved peak ignorance and now have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing.

Buttercup, freakishly omniscient as usual, asks, "You didn't get anything he said, did you?"

"Not gonna lie. I did not."

She shakes her head, chuckling. "Okay, space cadet. Groups of three, each group has a ball. One person in the middle, the other two on either side of them. Pass the ball over the person in the middle, but if they catch it, the thrower makes a switch."

I squint. "So we're playing Monkey in the Middle?

She shrugs. "Howe doesn't wanna call it that, but yes. Exactly that."

"... Okay," I say, glancing around quickly. Most of the others have already grouped off and started. "So who's our third, then?" I ask, hoping to God that she doesn't pick Boomer—who is currently being swarmed with like, seven girls and guys—just to spite me.

"Oh, Mike is," she responds as if it's the most obvious answer in the world, or as if said Mike isn't on the other side of the field, asking some other duo if he can join them.

"Mike? But he's—"

"Wait for it."

Almost immediately after the words leave her lips, Mike turns, catches sight of us, and then starts jogging over. I stare at Buttercup, eyebrows furrowed, because _how the fuck._

"Hey, you two," Mike pants as he reaches us. "Mind if I be your third?"

She grins at me. "Not at all," she says. He nods and goes for one of the numerous balls piled up a few metres from where we're standing.

"You're terrifying, BC," I say to her. She smirks, keeping her gaze focused on Mike as he pokes at a particularly deflated ball that's sitting on top of the pile.

"Thank you for noticing."

The next twenty-five minutes are spent tossing a ball over the heads of either me, Mike or Buttercup. Mike's a pretty impressive jumper, so I'm in the middle the most. I'm perfectly fine with the position, though, since I'm mostly thankful that Howe decided to have us do a more tame activity today. The less strain I have, the less my head hurts. It's a win-win.

Or it was, until Buttercup threw the ball too hard and sent it sailing over both me and Mike's heads and into a tall-ass tree.

I send her a wide-eyed glare once we see where the ball comes to rest. "Why?" I ask, splaying my arms wide in an effort to properly project my incredulity.

"I didn't mean to!" she defends, holding her hands up in surrender.

"Utonium!" Mr. Howe calls, his voice scolding. "That strength of yours is good _when_ you keep it in check!"

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters, and after catching his glare, rephrases. "Er, yes. Sorry, Mr. Howe."

"Right," he says. And then, "Now, Jojo, go get the ball."

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

His gaze doesn't waver. "Buttercup threw the ball. Mike is in the middle. You're the one who was meant to catch it. So go get it."

"He's right, y'know," Mike says.

"Oh, come on." I turn to glare at him, too. He stares back calmly; all the years of being around me and Buttercup have desensitised him to our shows of malice at this point. "If anyone should be fetching it, it should be Buttercup!"

"Oh, stop being so dramatic," Buttercup says, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. "It's not like it's hard to get."

"You wouldn't be so chill about it if you were the one who had to get it," I grumble.

"True." She nods in agreement. But before I can think up another retort, Mr. Howe clears his throat.

" _Butch_."

"Fine, whatever," I mutter, marching across the field and making sure to discreetly flip Mr. Howe off as I walk past him.

I reach the tree in half a minute, and the ball isn't even high up in it, so I don't really know why I'm all that annoyed. It could just be because today isn't great in general, but even that seems dumb because so far the day hasn't even sucked all that badly.

I start to float upward, stretching my arm out in a reach. My fingers are inches away from the rubber of the ball when Mr. Howe pipes up.

"No powers!"

I stop mid-air, turning my hair to stare at him. "Are you serious?"

He smirks. "Dead."

"But I'm right—"

"No powers, Jojo."

"Oh, for the fucking love of—" I cut off into a sigh as I drop to the ground and start to climb up the tree trunk.

I can hear Buttercup's snickers as I crawl along the branch to the stupid ball. I'd be more irritated if the sound of her laughter wasn't so _goddamn good to hear._

* * *

The most tolerable class I have is Art. Partly because I like it, and partly because it barely ever subjects me to physical exertion (moving canvases excluded, some of those things are heavy as fuck). Oh, and partly because I recently started sharing it with the one Powerpuff that neither thinks I'm constantly about to set the class on fire nor lives to spite me all the time.

Yes, Bubbles is pretty dope. Shoot me.

Today we're meant to be drawing nature—if you could call the very _man-made_ courtyard that looks out onto the very _not-created-by-the-earth_ basketball court next to the very tiny school garden 'natural'—so I find my way to the courtyard where the class is gathered, and then to Bubbles, who is sitting far off to the side next to Marley and Gemma.

"What's cookin', home skillet?" she asks as I sit down in my usual seat beside her, and I wince hard.

"Oh, Jesus," I groan, holding my chest as if I'm nursing a stab to the lung. "That one sentence made me lose six braincells, at least."

"Now, that is impossible," Marley says, chuckling softly. "Because last I checked, you only had four."

I pause. "... Well, damn. You're right." And then I fall forward, effectively faceplanting into my sketchbook. "Vegetative state activated," I mumble into the paper.

I can feel them all rolling their eyes as Bubbles drags me back up by the collar of my shirt. "Can we get to actually being art students, please?" she asks, casting me a pointed glance.

I flash her a goofy grin. "Whatever you say, sugarplum."

The retching sound she makes is very impressive.

"You'd better not let Boomer hear you say that," Gemma warns, already starting off with her drawing.

I roll my eyes. "Trust me when I say the chances of Boomer willingly taking an art class are slim to none."

"Right next to the chances of Butch liking me romantically," Bubbles adds, her gaze trained on her sketch. She's already pretty good, even though she only joined earlier this year. "So you don't have to worry, Gem."

"I'm not worried," Gemma says. "I know Butch is just being... well, himself. I just don't want half the school decimated because of another Rowdyruff brawl."

I narrow my eyes at her first words. "Wait, what makes you so sure that I don't dig Bubbles?" I ask.

She answers immediately. "Because she's not Buttercup. Duh."

The absolute confidence in her statement makes me want to melt into the floor. "What? I don't—"

"Oh, don't start," Marley cuts me off. "Your shows of affection are so poorly hidden I get second-hand embarrassment just by watching them."

"Ouch," Bubbles wheezes, clutching her chest and trying not to cackle.

Casting Marley a deadpan look, I say, "Oh, come on. You're exaggerating. You probably figured it out just because you've been around me long enough."

"Okay, first: you stopped denying it hella fast," Ginger Boy says. "And second—" he cuts off to tap the two people in front of us; Kevin turns around to face us with a raised eyebrow, and Suzie right after him.

"What's up?"

"Who do you think Butch likes?"

Once again, there's no hesitation. "Buttercup. Everyone knows that."

"Yeah, obviously. Or, well, maybe except for Buttercup."

"She can be a little oblivious sometimes," Bubbles says quietly, a bit of empathy in her tone.

I'm too busy trying to get over the mixture of shock and mortification I'm feeling right now. Fuck, does _everyone_ know? I've always thought I was pretty good at hiding a lot of my emotions, but what if I'm not? And what if Buttercup knows too? What if my possible confession last night didn't matter because she'd already figured it out?

"Oh shit," I whisper, and I must look pretty damn petrified because now Bubbles, Gemma and Kevin are looking at me with equally remorseful expressions.

"Hey, we didn't mean it in a bad way or anything," Gemma says.

My lips curl into a sneer. "Yeah, well, you saying that obviously _doesn't make a difference,_ Gemma." I snap at her. She blinks, and I backtrack immediately. "Shit, sorry, I didn't—"

"Butch and Co.!" All of our heads snap up at Miss Carlyle's voice. She casts her pointed stare at all four of us in turn. "Having given you enough time to quiet down, I take it you have something you so desperately want to share with the class?"

"Sorry, Miss Carlyle," we all say in unison. And it's sincere, not the practiced drone every other teacher gets.

She nods once. "Back to work, then," she says.

I duck my head down and stare at my still blank paper. My fingers clench into the sketchbook until it crumples under the force; I wish the paper was my skin instead. Anything to stop me from freaking out.

God, I know this is fucking irrational. I know Buttercup wouldn't hate me, even if I said or did anything weird or stupid. But that doesn't stop me from being terrified, because like always, the risk of her reacting badly outweighs any hope I could ever have.

* * *

I find Buttercup as soon as school's out. She's standing just by the school gates, probably waiting for one of her sisters. From my place by the school's entrance, I notice her expression. It's sorta... annoyed. Of course, the first thing that pops into my head is _she's probably annoyed at me._ It's not an overdramatic thought—I annoy Buttercup on pretty much a daily basis—but in my current headspace I know it's me being dumb, so I push the thought from my mind and head towards her.

She notices me once I'm a few steps away. "Hey," she says to me. "You still mad about P.E.?"

She looks the complete opposite of apologetic, so even though I'm over it, I respond, "Why, of course! My ability to hold grudges is quite powerful, y'know."

"Uh huh."

"Really. I could like, try to stab you in your sleep."

"Over a ball."

"Absolutely."

She chuckles a bit. "Whatever, man," she says. And then she looks around, the annoyed expression reappearing. "I was supposed to wait for Blossom, but it's been ten minutes, so..." She turns and starts to walk off. "Seeya tomorrow."

"Wait!" I shout, way too loud and way too desperate. Damn. Am I always this weird? Or are my friends' words from art class just screwing with me? "Uh, I want to ask you something."

She raises an eyebrow, and then shrugs. "Sure. What is it?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Almost instantly my brain starts screaming at me. _It's a simple fucking question, Butch. A lot of ways to phrase it. 'Did I say anything else last night?' or, 'I feel like I said something weird last night. Is there something you're not telling me?' or, hell, just go the whole nine yards! 'Did I tell you that I liked you last night?' Say_ anything _, you moron!_

"Do you wanna come over to my house? We could do homework or whatever and then... hang out?"

_Oh, for the love of fuck._

Instead of her waving me away, or even just saying no outright, Buttercup's features relax in... relief?

"Oh, thank god," she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You, my boy, are a lifesaver."

"What? Why?"

"Blossom's cooking dinner."

" _Blossom's cooking_ —mpfh!" I cut off as she clamps her hands over my mouth, shushing me frantically.

"She might be around, you idiot!" she hisses through her teeth. Then she relaxes, folding her arms across her chest. "I've been looking for an alibi to get out of it all day."

"Why the hell would your dad allow Blossom to _purposefully_ make food?" I ask, incredulous. Then I pause. "Well, _attempt_ to make food, anyway."

"He says he's been trying to 'break her into it' or whatever." she shakes her head at the phrase. "It's like he _wants_ her to burn the house down."

"Or possibly poison you all."

"Or possibly poison us all, yes."

It's at this point that I notice that we've both subconsciously started walking. I smile a little at the small action; sometimes it's like our brains have been wired a type of way over the years.

So I decide not to ask her about last night yet. I let myself stop thinking about anything but talking to Buttercup and walking home. I grin and I tell jokes and watch her chortle or groan in response. I let my mind float in my (apparently poorly-hidden) affections without trying to hide them as much as I usually do. Because if Buttercup really can't see it, then that means I can hang on to them a little longer. And if she can...

Well, I guess I'll find out when I get home.


End file.
